


I'll Sleep Soundly, With You By My Side

by TaraTheMeerkat



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: AND THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED!, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, because I am an absolute self-parody here's my FIFTH flambrown fic centred entirely around a bed, oh no I wonder what will happen, so sweet it will make your teeth rot, tune in next time to see what other excuses I can find to get the two of them on a bed together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:26:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27809068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaraTheMeerkat/pseuds/TaraTheMeerkat
Summary: After dragging Father Brown into his latest nonsense, Flambeau and the good Father find themselves in a hotel room together for the night. Unfortunately, while perfect in all other respects, this room has only one bed. This is fine, right? They're both sure the night will pass smoothly, and no buried feelings whatsoever will come to light.
Relationships: Father Brown/M. Hercule Flambeau
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	I'll Sleep Soundly, With You By My Side

“Ah. I see the problem,” Father Brown said, staring around the hotel room that featured one large double bed, one very small two-seater couch, one very nice writing desk and wooden chair, some particularly lovely floral curtains at the window, and absolutely no second bed.

Flambeau gave a snort of annoyance. “A most unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“I’ll take the couch.” Father Brown spoke without hesitation, as though the prospect didn’t even bother him.

 _Tiresome man,_ Flambeau thought. _Doesn’t he get bored of being so pious and selfless all the time?_

“Don’t be absurd,” he said aloud, voice short and sharp. “I am smaller than you, younger than you, not to mention we are here on my benefit. The obvious solution would be that I take the couch.”

Father Brown frowned slightly, his head tilted to one side, looking at Flambeau in that thoughtful way of his that made Flambeau feel uncomfortably like the man was gazing into his soul. The priest opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again, and after a few more moments of quiet thoughtfulness, spoke at last. “No,” he said, softly. “You need to be at your best tomorrow, if you really can’t be persuaded _not_ to break into the Friedman Museum. If you sleep curled up on that all night, you shall probably put your back out.”

Flambeau gave another snort, although this time amusement mingled with his annoyance. “I’m not that old, Father,” he said.

“You’re not that young, either.”

He let out a disbelieving laugh. “I’m younger than you!”

“Yes,” said Father Brown, face and tone annoyingly unreadable. “And so is Inspector Mallory, but I daresay his days of scaling drainpipes are long behind him, too.”

At this, to his annoyance, genuine amusement tugged at the corners of Flambeau’s mouth. “I refuse to believe that tiresome little toad of a man was ever any picture of physical agility. Nor mental agility, come to think of it.”

Amusement tugged at the Father’s own mouth at that, despite himself. “Yes, you may have a point there,” he said, quietly, barely stifling a laugh.

Flambeau sighed. “You didn’t have to come, Father,” he muttered.

“Yes I did.” Father Brown’s voice was firm, but with a certain gentleness to it. “Somebody has to make sure you _only_ steal the St Dymphna rosary, and leave the rest of the collection untouched. And somebody has to make sure you don’t get yourself into anymore trouble than you’re already in.”

“You don’t trust me, Father? I’m hurt.” Flambeau frowned, but the harshness of his words reached neither the tone of his voice, nor his eyes.

The priest gave a small wry smile. “That depends on what you mean by trusting you,” he said, simply. “I’d trust you with my life. Just not necessarily with my valuables.”

“Hmph.” Flambeau turned away, determined not to let the priest see any sign of him reacting to those words, even as a ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. “I’m sure you know best.”

“And I’m sure I don’t,” Father Brown said, positively cheerfully. “I’ve long been considered an absolute fool by most of the church. Just a useful idiot, that’s me.”

Flambeau blinked, unsure of how to respond to that, and decided to busy himself by producing a bottle of wine out of his luggage, and pouring it into two glasses. “There’s no need to play the fool with me, Father,” he said at last, softly, not looking up from his task. “I know you far too well for that.” He handed one of the glasses to the priest, who took it with a grateful smile.

“Yes,” he said, barely audibly, his voice and his gaze faraway, distant. “Yes, I rather fear you do.”

Flambeau frowned, took a breath to ask the Father what he meant, then thought better of it, letting it out in a long sigh. “Father,” he said, firmly, after taking a sip of his wine. “As much as I relish our little philosophical debates, this is getting us no closer to solving the problem at hand.”

Father Brown took a slow, thoughtful sip, then spoke. “I suppose we could just share the bed.”

Flambeau choked on his wine.

“It does appear to be the obvious solution,” Father Brown continued, thoughtfully, as though he hadn’t noticed anything.

Flambeau dabbed at the stain on his cuff in a strangely frantic fashion, floundering for some kind of response. He supposed the Father did have a point. Logically, they both had to sleep, and logically, it truly wasn’t practical for either of them to spend the entire night on the tiny couch. _I’m the only one making a big deal out of this,_ he thought. _The man’s a priest, for Christ’s sake. He’s hardly trying to seduce me, is he?_

“Yes. Alright,” Flambeau said, as calmly and as casually as he could muster, hoping against hope that Father Brown hadn’t seen his brief panic or his blush, hadn’t somehow read something into them. The last thing he needed was for the priest to turn away and abandon him now. He knew too much. If Father Brown went to the police now it would be disastrous for him.

He continued to tell himself that _that_ was the only reason the thought of Father Brown leaving and not coming back filled him with an overwhelming cold dread. Of course it was. What other reason was there?

 _Of course,_ said a quiet voice in the back of his head. _He will leave, eventually. Everyone leaves eventually._

He silenced that voice instantly, trying not to think about the even more overpowering cold dread that washed over him. He sipped his wine.

“Hercule?” Father Brown’s voice was soft, and laced with mild concern. “Are you alright?”

Flambeau looked up to see the priest looking at him over his own wine with big sad eyes, brow furrowed slightly. He supposed he must’ve been quietly lost in thought for longer than he thought. He flashed Father Brown what he hoped was one of his most dazzling and disarming smiles. “Of course, Father.” His voice was bright, although even he could tell it sounded a little forcedly so. “Good wine, good company, what more could a man possibly want?”

Father Brown raised an eyebrow at him. He clearly hadn’t bought it at all. Still, to his credit, he knew when it was wisest not to push a matter further. He downed the last of his wine, and placed the glass down on the desk. “If you’ll excuse me then,” he said, kneeling on the floor and opening his (honestly rather sweetly quaint, Flambeau thought) suitcase. “I’ve had a _very_ long and _very_ unconventional day, and I’d like to get ready for bed.”

“Honestly, Father,” said Flambeau, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. “I’ve seen your village. I would’ve thought you’d be grateful for the excitement.”

Father Brown paused and looked up at him from the spot he was kneeling. Flambeau’s heart gave a funny little flip at the sight that he very firmly put down to a mixture of the wine, his own tiredness, and how long it had been since he had had any kind of nightly companionship.

“I would be _grateful_ ,” Father Brown said, not taking his eyes off of Flambeau even as he retrieved his pyjamas. “If certain _thieves_ would stop putting themselves in mortal danger for once. I’m getting old, Hercule. I don’t know how much more stress on this level I can handle.”

Flambeau grinned. “You worry about me, Father?”

Father Brown sighed dramatically. “Hercule, I worry about you _constantly_. I worry about you when I hear your latest exploits, and I worry even more when I haven’t heard from you in a while. If you could telephone occasionally just to tell me you’ve had a very calm and quiet day and you’re completely fine, I would very much appreciate it.”

Flambeau quirked an eyebrow and swirled his wine glass thoughtfully. “Father. Don’t you think if I worded it exactly like that, you’d just assume I was hiding something, and worry even more?”

The priest gave another dramatic sigh. “I would,” he agreed, in a resigned tone of voice. “Perhaps you should visit more often. That way I could see you were alright, with my own two eyes.”

Flambeau furrowed his brow in mock confusion. “You can see me right now, can’t you?” he said, leaning against the desk and lazily gesturing at himself. “Here I am, before you, in all my splendour.”

Father Brown gave him a disapproving look. “Yes,” he said. “And tomorrow I'll see you in all your splendour as you break in through a fifth-floor window, avoiding possible dozens of armed police. Forgive me if I’m not thrilled at the prospect.”

Flambeau smirked and took a sip of his wine. “Don’t act so sanctimonious, Father. I know you’re at least a _little_ thrilled at the prospect.”

Father Brown’s lips became a thin disapproving line, before he sighed once more, finally breaking Flambeau’s gaze and looking back to his pyjamas. “Impressed at the artistry of the crime, if anything,” he said, quietly. “Most definitely _not_ thrilled at the idea of seeing you in danger.”

The priest tucked his folded nightclothes under one arm, and wordlessly reached out his other hand to the Frenchman. Silently, Flambeau took the hand, helping Father Brown to his feet. Once the priest was standing, their hands lingered, fingers wrapped around each other, just for a moment.

Flambeau did not dwell on it. He ignored the way he could still feel the warmth on his hand.

He took a sip of his wine.

His eyes silently followed the priest as he strode across the room, placed his pyjamas down on the bed, and- _Good god,_ he thought. His eyes widened slightly as Father Brown began unbuttoning his cassock.

The prospect of seeing Father brown without his cassock alone felt wrong, somehow. Dirty. Intimate. Like something not meant for Flambeau’s sinful eyes. The thought of seeing him in a state of undress… Flambeau willed his cheeks not to flush pink, taking another minute sip of wine to distract himself. He had no idea how Father Brown had downed his glass so quickly.

The priest didn’t even look up, seemingly unaware that Flambeau was still watching him intently. He slipped off his cassock. Flambeau found himself strangely fascinated by the sight of Father Brown’s shoulders. The bare skin, as innocuous as it may have been, seemed somehow scandalous, and it looked pale, and soft, and _inviting._ A strange, creeping part of Flambeau longed to touch it. Longed to see more of it.

Flambeau forced his eyes away, turning back to the desk and topping up his glass. Perhaps the priest was right. He should take it easy. He could go cruising around the bars of Paris, sleep with a few beautiful young ladies, maybe even a few beautiful young gentlemen, and these thoughts would go away. _None of them would be such good company, though,_ a voice in his head said. _None of them would make for quite such enjoyable conversation._ He frowned to himself. He didn’t _need_ company. Didn’t need conversation.

He sighed. _Paris is only truly enjoyable when you’re exploring its sights and pleasures with someone captivating and interesting and intelligent,_ he thought.

“Have you ever been to Paris, Father?” he asked, before he could stop himself. He turned around and immediately regretted it, his breath catching in his throat as he saw Father Brown, now having shed his trousers, shoes, and socks, sitting on the edge of the bed in only his vest and underpants, toes wiggling in the soft carpet. Flambeau had the strangest urge to walk over and run his hands over those thighs, and he hated it. He pursed his lips. He truly hoped he wasn’t blushing. His mind really was being most unreasonable this evening.

Father Brown blinked at him. “Yes,” he said, thoughtfully. “Though not for an awfully long while. Not since before the war. I imagine it’s changed since then.” He gave Flambeau a wry smile. “And even then, I was only there on church business. They don’t allow much time for personal pleasure, or for sight-seeing.”

Flambeau remembered to breathe. “No,” he said, simply. “No, I have noticed that.”

Father Brown gave him a warm, genuine smile, then leaned back on the bed slightly, giving Flambeau a better view of his bare arms. Flambeau forgot how to breathe again. “Why did you ask?” the priest said, calmly and pleasantly, as though Flambeau wasn’t currently staring at him wide-eyed.

“I. Um.” Why exactly _had_ Flambeau asked? “I just wondered if you’d like to join me there, for a few day’s holiday, at some point. If your church can spare you,” he said, as casually as he could muster, breaking his gaze away from the priest’s bare thighs, and taking a long sip of his wine.

Father Brown beamed at him. “I’d be delighted!”

“Good. That’s- Good. Good. I look forward to it.” He downed the rest of his wine, and put the glass down so heavily he almost feared it might splinter.

Brown raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing, and set about putting on his pyjamas, agonisingly slowly. Flambeau turned his attention to a suddenly very fascinating tacky painting of a bowl of fruit that had been hung on the wall, no doubt to liven the room up a bit. Flambeau felt that the room could have been better improved by the addition of a second bed.

A few minutes passed like this, in heavy but not unpleasant silence.

“Aren’t you going to join me?” Father Brown said at last.

Flambeau turned to see Father Brown, wearing his quaint blue pyjamas, sitting up in bed, his clothes neatly folding on the little couch. Flambeau’s relief at seeing the priest’s bare flesh covered up once more was short lived, as the words he had spoken sunk in. _‘Join me?’_ he thought. _Jesus Christ. Father Brown is actually asking me to come to bed with him._ He mentally admonished himself for the thought. Father Brown would never think of him that way. He was the only one whose mind was taking an innocent situation to such a place.

“We have an early start tomorrow,” the Father added softly. He patted the space in the bed beside him. “Come on. Get some rest.”

Flambeau continued to stare at him foolishly.

“I promise I don’t snore,” Father Brown said, smiling gently. “At least, I don’t think I do. There’s very rarely anyone around to tell me.”

Flambeau smiled at that, finally stepping forward to sit on the edge of the bed, heavily aware of Father Brown’s eyes upon him. “Don’t you get lonely, Father?” he said at last, as he unlaced his shoes.

Unless it was his imagination, he heard the faintest sharp intake of breath behind him. “…Perhaps,” said the priest, in a small, quiet voice. “Sometimes. Yes.” A pause, then: “Don’t you?”

Flambeau kicked off his shoes and socks and gave a small huff of laughter. “Me, Father? Lonely? With so many people on both sides of the law so obviously desperate for my company?”

“Hercule.” Father Brown didn’t sound remotely amused. “People wanting you dead does _not_ count as a social life.”

Flambeau removed his jacket and tie, unceremoniously dumped them onto the floor, and slipped into the bed beside the priest, still in his trousers and shirt. He had intended to sleep in his underwear, but that somehow felt improper, given the circumstances. “My dear Father,” he said. “When one is such a universally contentious figure both in the eyes of the criminal underworld and in the eyes of good law-abiding citizen, as I happen to be, sometimes people who want to kill you are the closest thing to friends a man can have. At least you always know they won’t let anyone else kill you before they can carry out the deed themselves.”

Father Brown frowned, blinking at him with those big sad eyes of his, and it all seemed so much more intimate when they happened to be sharing a bed. “What about me?” he said, sounding genuinely unsure for the first time that evening. “You’ve got me. I thought I was your friend?”

Flambeau broke eye contact, tipping his head back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. “You’re different.”

“Different? …I’m not sure how to tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, Hercule.”

Flambeau half-smiled, giving a single shake of the head. “ _We’re_ different, Father. You and I. We’re not really on either side, we’re sort of…” He made a decidedly continental vague hand gesture. “Stuck halfway in between. Isolated from truly fitting in with either walk of life. But at least…” he trailed off, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Exposed. Like he’d said too much. He decided to blame the wine.

“…But at least we’ve got each other,” Father Brown whispered, completing the thought.

“Hmm.” Flambeau felt vaguely uneasy. He decided to lie down and close his eyes. Even if sleep wouldn’t come, at least he could pretend it had, as an excuse to stop talking, before he said anything else he might regret later.

He heard the light being switched of, and a shifting in the bed next to him, _impossibly_ close, as the priest lay down.

“Goodnight, Hercule,” came a whisper, close to his own head, and then silence.

_Fire. Gunshots. Shouting. He was running through a building, flames licking around him, gunshots whistling past his head. He gave a defiant laugh. This was a dream he’d had many times before, it always ended the same way. Just when it seemed he was cornered, he’d leap from an open window, unharmed, and escape._

_Wait._

_Something was different, this time._

_He wasn't alone. Someone was running alongside him, clinging to his arm._

_“Father?”_

_What was he doing here? Another gunshot. The flames grew closer. There was no time. The priest stopped moving._

_“Father,” he said. “You have to run. Come, Father, quickly. We have to run. We can get away.”_

_Father Brown looked at him with sad, solemn eyes. “I’m sorry, Hercule,” he said. “I have to leave you now.”_

_Flambeau opened his mouth to question what he meant, when another gunshot rang out, closer this time. The priest crumpled to the ground in a pathetic heap._

_“NO!” Flambeau yelled, falling to his knees. He rolled the priest over. Blood trickled down his face. His glasses broken and bloodstained. His eyes were wide open, staring up at him but unseeing, lifeless._

_“No,” Flambeau whispered. “No, please. No.”_

_He held the Father’s body and wept, as the fire closed in around them._

“Hercule? Hercule!”

Flambeau’s eyes snapped open. He was trembling, drenched in sweat, tears mingling with the dampness on his cheeks. He looked around wildly, eyes wide. Father Brown was half sitting up, incredibly close, his hand on Flambeau’s arm, his hair rather adorably unkept, concern lacing his un-spectacled face.

“You were having a bad dream,” Father Brown said, softly. “Are you alright?”

Rather wildly, and without fully realising what he was doing, Flambeau reached out, grasping and Father Brown’s arm in return, needing to feel him, warm and moving and _alive._

Father Brown blinked in response, but made no movement to remove himself from Flambeau’s slightly manic grip. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

Flambeau steadied his breath, matching his breathing to Brown’s as he stared at his chest, watching it rise and fall. “Father,” he said at last, in a raspy voice.

Father Brown smiled gently at him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Flambeau said firmly, pulling away from the priest and his comforting hands and sympathetic eyes, closing his own eyes to block him out.

“Alright.” Father Brown’s voice was soft, calm, not at all offended, and still painfully close by.

Flambeau sighed in annoyance. He opened his eyes again. The priest was still half sitting up, watching his face keenly in the darkness, his own expression soft but unreadable. He sighed again, but without any weight behind it this time.

“Father, about tomorrow,” he said.

“Yes?”

“…You shouldn’t come.”

“What?!” Father Brown sounded genuinely offended at that. “Of course I’m coming! I made myself perfectly clear-”

Flambeau raised a hand to silence him. “It’s too dangerous, Father.”

Father Brown blinked at him incredulously. “That’s exactly what _I’ve_ been saying!”

Flambeau groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s too dangerous for _you,_ Father. I’m willing to run the risks. I can handle it. You’ll only get dragged into things you should by rights have nothing to do with. You’ll only get hurt.”

“I thought you were keen for me to get dragged into a life of crime, Hercule.” Father Brown’s voice was soft, but with some strange emotion that Flambeau couldn’t place bubbling just below the surface. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

 _“I don’t want you to die!”_ Flambeau snapped, his voice raw with emotion usually left unsaid, surprising even himself with the sudden outburst.

Father Brown blinked at him. “Oh,” he said, that strange unplaceable emotion quavering through his voice again.

“Father, I…” Flambeau floundered for words. “Things should never have got this far,” he whispered, more to himself than anything.

A warm hand was placed into Flambeau’s arm once again, giving it a slight comforting squeeze. Father Brown smiled at him, warmth and sorrow and sympathy and understanding all mixed together in his eyes. “You can’t stop me from coming with you, Hercule,” Father Brown said, slowly, as though carefully considering his words. “But I can promise you I will be careful.”

Flambeau sighed again. He knew that was probably the best he was going to get. “Thank you, Father.” He sounded exhausted, and he hated it.

“You should get back to sleep.” Father Brown gave his arm another gentle squeeze, not removing his hand. He gave a sudden faraway smile. “You looked ever so peaceful, before you started crying. Almost angelic.”

Flambeau gave a snort of unexpected laughter. “Angelic? _Me?_ ” Gradually, the rest of Father Brown’s words began to sink in. _Father Brown saw me cry?_ He thought, mortified at the prospect. _Wait._ He sat up with a jolt. “You were watching me sleep!?”

Father Brown had the good grace to look sheepish, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “Ah. Well. Not _really._ I just…” He sighed. “I couldn’t sleep, Hercule. I couldn’t make my brain stop thinking. But you were sleeping so soundly. You looked so sweet, so peaceful, and I couldn’t help but think-”

He broke away, shifting to sit up properly himself, staring down at his hands in his lap, his blush spreading.

“Thank what, Father?” Flambeau said, gently.

“I couldn’t help _wishing_.” Father Brown’s voice was barely more than a whisper, and he seemed unable to even look in Flambeau’s direction. “Wishing we could stay like this. Wishing I could keep you safely here with me.”

Flambeau blinked. Breathing appeared to have suddenly become rather difficult again. “You really do worry about me, don’t you, Father?”

“You know I do, Hercule.” Father Brown’s voice sounded miserable, exhausted, resigned.

Flambeau gave a small dry smile. “Can’t have me meeting my sticky end before you’ve brought my soul back to God, hm, Father?”

Father Brown whipped his head around, hurt and sadness painted over every one of his features, and Flambeau loathed himself for it. “That’s what you think this is about?” Father Brown’s voice was thick, heavy, quavering, as though he might cry at any moment.

Flambeau swallowed. “…Isn’t it?”

Father Brown made a small noise that sounded far too much like a strangled sob for Flambeau’s liking. “Hercule,” he said with a slight groan. “This stopped being about bringing your soul back to God a long, long time ago. I just _like_ you. I like to be with you. I just want you to be safe and happy. I want-” He broke off, blinking rapidly.

Unsure of what else to do, Flambeau reached over, placing a hand on Father Brown’s trembling arm. “Father?” he said. He licked his lips. Words caught in his throat. He found he had things he wanted to say, but he couldn’t make them form themselves into words. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and trembling, entirely unlike his normal tone. “…What, Father? What is it that you want? What do you want from _me?_ ”

Father Brown lifted his head to meet Flambeau’s gaze, eyes wide and watery. Slowly, he placed a hand over Flambeau’s, brushing a thumb over the thief’s knuckles. He spoke, his voice a barely audible whisper. “Will you forgive me if I tell you, Hercule?”

Flambeau nodded. He knew in his heart of hearts that he could forgive the priest anything. The priest had forgiven him, after all.

By way of response, and to Flambeau’s wonderment and amazement, Father Brown leaned forwards, brushing his lips against the corner of Flambeau’s mouth in the lightest trembling ghost of a kiss. Flambeau gave a shaking gasp, as though the minuscule touch had been electric.

“You, Hercule,” Father Brown breathed. “I want _you_.”

“…Me?” Flambeau could scarcely believe what had just happened. Scarcely believe what he was hearing.

Father Brown nodded, nervously. “I want to be with you. I never want to be apart from you. I want you to be happy with me. I want to be enough for you.” He gave a sad smile, and a shrug. “I love you,” he said, simply, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”

Flambeau stared at him incredulously, his mouth hanging open.

Father Brown swallowed heavily and looked away, removing his hand from where it had still rested on top of Flambeau’s, still on Father Brown’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, sounding utterly wretched. “I didn’t mean to fall in love. I tried my best not to. It just happened.”

Flambeau couldn’t bear it any longer. He lunged forward, crashing his lips against the Father’s, wrapping his arms around him, kissing him clumsily, desperately.

“Hercule,” Father Brown said weakly, when they broke apart, panting. “Hercule, you don’t have to-”

Flambeau silenced him with another kiss. “Hush, Father,” he said, breathlessly. “I don’t _have_ to do anything. I’m doing this because I want to.”

“You- You _want_ to?” Father Brown sounded confused, disbelieving. Flambeau hated that the priest apparently thought it so unlikely that anyone should want to kiss him. That anyone should want to hold him. That anyone should be charmed by him. That anyone should be driven to distraction just by the thought of him sleeping beside them. That anyone should love him.

 _I love him,_ Flambeau thought, and it was as though a light bulb had been switched on in his head, illuminating a previously dark and unknown room in his mind, all of its contents suddenly making so much more sense when seen plainly in the light. _I love him. I love him I love him I love him._

He leaned forwards and kissed the priest again, slowly, tenderly this time, trying to convey as many of the emotions that were currently crashing over him in a single kiss as he could.

“Father?” he whispered, voice trembling. He took a deep wavering breath, and spoke. “I love you. I think I always have. I’m only sorry it took me so long to realise it.”

Father Brown smiled, tears falling freely down his cheeks now. Flambeau reached out and gently brushed them away. “My Father,” he murmured tenderly. “My priest.” Father Brown gave a small gasp, fresh tears falling. Flambeau leaned forward and kissed these tears away.

“We should get some sleep, Hercule,” Father Brown said softly, detaching himself from the thief, who would have quite happily carried on doing what he was doing all night, thank you very much.

But when they were both lying down once more, Father Brown opened his arms to the thief, and Flambeau grateful wriggled into them, hungrily breathing in the scent of the priest, the warmth of the hug he found himself enveloped in, and the feel of the priest’s heart beating heavily beneath his palm like lifelines.

Father Brown had grown so quiet, his breathing so steady, that Flambeau had thought him to be asleep, until he spoke again. “Where do we go from here, Hercule?” he murmured softly into Flambeau’s hair.

“We go to sleep,” said Flambeau, but he slipped a hand inside Father Brown’s pyjama top, needing to feel closer still, and he pressed a kiss to his chest. “And tomorrow we go to the Friedman Museum. We still have a rosary to steal, after all.”

Father Brown pressed a kiss to the top of Flambeau’s head, idly playing with his hair. “And after that?”

“After that,” said Flambeau, shifting himself in the Father’s arms to bring them face to face. “After that is up to you.” He kissed the priest softly on the lips. “Where do _you_ want us to go from here, Father?”

“Paris,” Father Brown said, sounding sleepy, but suddenly certain. “I want you to show me Paris, like you said. We can figure it out from there.”

“Will your church allow you to just take a holiday like that, without any warning, Father?” Flambeau said in mild surprise.

Father Brown smiled, and sleepily kissed the bewildered Frenchman again. “I don’t know. And I don’t care. If they want to stop me, they’ll have to catch me. And I think you’ll find I’m being stolen away by the best thief in Europe.” And with that, he gave a yawn, and closed his eyes.

Flambeau gave a disbelieving yet delighted laugh, and snuggled closer, snaking an arm around his priest.

Half asleep, Father Brown wound his own arms tighter around Flambeau. “G’night, Hercule,” he mumbled indistinctly. “Love you.”

“…I love you too, Father,” Flambeau whispered. But Father Brown was already asleep.


End file.
